


compensation

by anethum



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Alec Hardy Needs A Hug, Alec Hardy Whump, Alec Hardy and His Broken Heart, Anal Sex, Angst, Choking, Coming In Pants, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Dominance, Forced Feminization, Frottage, Hand Jobs, He Does Not Get One, Humiliation, Kidnapping, M/M, Nipple Play, Power Dynamics, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22448410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anethum/pseuds/anethum
Summary: Ashworth darted to bite Hardy's ear. "You took my wife," he hissed, his hot mouth languidly on his earlobe, "The least you can do is play the part you stole."
Relationships: Lee Ashworth/Alec Hardy
Comments: 11
Kudos: 77





	compensation

Hardy was waiting for Miller.

She'd picked him up, driven him halfway to court, realized she'd forgotten her purse which contained her phone— but had taken the bag that used to be her purse, an expensive one that Joe had apparently gotten her for their anniversary— and then they'd had to turn round, back to her place.

Apparently it was taking her a while to find her purse. Hardy was just about ready to tear in there to complain about being late, and possibly help her find her bag. He was getting restless.

He mentally noted the shadow of a person drawing closer to the car. There were lots of people wittering around, it was the wake up hour in a residential area. There were kids and such around, mothers and fathers trying to reign them in to get to school. There were teenagers by themselves. Older folk just starting or on their way back from their morning walk.

So Hardy's first mistake was assuming that the shadow was ordinary. Just one of these other people, starting their day.

This was the first mistake of many.

The driver's seat car door clicked open. He frowned. Tensed. He hadn't seen Miller exit her house. Already, his hand instinctively reached for an escape, the handle on the door. Anxiety rising, he turned his head, expecting Miller, berating him for being paranoid when it was only her.

Lee Ashworth's face stared back at him. "Good morning, DI Hardy."

Adrenaline broke through the dam and he scrambled to open the door, heart racing.

Ashworth tackled his hands from him, grabbing tight to his wrists, slamming one against the window, the other against the head rest, watching Hardy squirm.

"Don't overexert yourself, Alec," Ashworth warned, "I've got your daughter in my hotel room and I'll get to her first— wouldn't you like to know what I'd do to her."

The fight dropped away from him like an icicle. Slowly, Ashworth let go of him. Hardy wildly looked around for a sign of people watching them. They'd all gotten in their cars and gone. Or passed his car without a thought. No one stared.

Miller had left the keys in the car, not expecting to take as long as she apparently was. _Come back to me, Miller,_ he thought, a fruitless wish.

Taking notice of the keys, Ashworth twisted the key in the ignition, stepped on the gas, and drove.

Chest heaving, head still processing the situation that he was in, Hardy denied, "You don't have my daughter."

"Daisy?" Ashworth said back, glancing at him before returning back to the road, "Sure I do. Did you teach her all those curse words or was that all her?"

"Where?" Hardy said, looking for a sign that the man was lying, because he was. He had to be. _Sure I do._ Was that a sign of an untruth or was it just nonchalance?

This wasn't his first crime.

Ashworth didn't pretend to misunderstand the question. "Picked her up on the way to school. Told her I was a friend of yours from work, that she was in big danger. Said you requested I take her some place safe."

"I've only ever talked about Miller." he argued, breath short.

"So your little girl had hope you weren't a complete social outcast," Ashworth responded, signalling right, "Good for her. I think she figured out I was lying when I hit her on the head in my car and she woke tied up in my room."

"She'd have screamed." As little as he had liked it, they had talked about what to do if she ever was in a situation of danger. Some simple things like not taking drinks from strangers, or things like where to aim hits if necessary, as well as the more uncomfortable possibilities as these.

Kidnapping.

Ludicrous to both parties at the time, simply out of blind hope. Scream first, fight hard, but give in once she's taken to the secondary location. Aggressors will assume she's weak and obedient— good. They won't try to break her in, fracture bones or joints or worse in the name of making her theirs. They'll get relaxed, she can look for weaknesses or escape routes with an intact mind and less eyes on her than if she was defiant.

"I had her gagged." Ashworth explained. "I told her I had you in my custody. A white lie, but I have you now so it doesn't matter. Told her what I did to you would depend on how she treated me. I let her swear at me. I gave her a grace period of sixty seconds to do as she liked. As soon as it was over she shut up."

As much as he hated it, Hardy couldn't stop his hands from violently tightening into fists. The car passed a sign notifying them they were leaving Broadchurch.

"She was a good girl," he said, "So don't worry, Alec. I'll be very nice to you. Alright?"

Hardy breathed heavy through his nose, his mouth shut, teeth biting on his lips that were trying to betray him with their incessant need to tremble. He was not afraid.

His voice went a darker shade. "Alright, Alec?" he demanded.

"Yes." he pushed back in reply.

"I'm not asking for much," Ashworth went on, a cruel charade of casual, "Just some manners from you. And Daisy will be okay. That's all."

Hardy bit back a response. _Give in,_ he reminded himself. It was an easier thing to say than do.

His phone went, singing the default phone chime.

"Who's that?" Ashworth growled.

He checked. "Miller."

When the phone call dropped, he noted the multitude of texts she'd already sent, scrolling through the number of them without mentally processing any of what she was actually saying.

"Turn your phone off," Ashworth demanded, "I don't want anymore distractions."

The highway was on a straight length, and Ashworth's eyes were steady on him, watching him to make a mistake. Emergency call. Text Miller an SOS. Hardy, staring back at Ashworth, did as he was told, and then sat it down in the door's cup holder.

Satisfied, Ashworth looked back to the road.

Hardy didn't say anything more and Ashworth didn't demand him to either. The drive was an eerie, anticipating silence from then on.

Ashworth pulled off the highway, car on the bumpy road to seclusion. There were sparse trees and the clouds hung heavy overhead. The grass was dull. They drove into the parking lot of a camping ground, no other cars around. It wasn't camping season.

Ashworth parked, and sat back.

Hardy looked ahead.

"It goes without saying that you won't try to escape." he warned.

"I won't."

"That wasn't a question. I know you won't."

Ashworth turned to look at him.

He slapped Hardy across the face. He didn't move to touch where he'd been slapped, though it burned needles. He was docile. He was giving in. He hated it.

Ashworth undid his seatbelt, and reached over, not the most graceful movements involved to lean Hardy's seat back, undoing his seatbelt as well.

Hardy's breathing was getting short-tempered, the other man's weight and eyes on him.

In a voice smaller than he'd have liked, he asked, "What do you want from me?"

Ashworth slapped him again on the same cheek, both hands zipping down to Hardy's to grip his wrists again.

"I ask the questions." Pressing down Hardy's wrists, he used that weight as leverage to clamber fully over onto Hardy's seat, legs on either side of his.

A seed of an idea beginning to be planted, watered and fed, Hardy's arms jerked and Ashworth held them down harder. His breath quickened.

No amount of pride on Hardy's part could change the fact that Ashworth's strength far surpassed his— that much was clear with barely a cursory glance over the two. Whatever Ashworth's plan was wasn't needed to know that much.

"Even if I'm wrong about you," he doubted it, "You're still— you're still committing a crime now."

Oh god, his chest was tightening on him. Growing thinner.

"You won't tell anyone about me," Ashworth responded, "You won't tell anyone what happened here. This will be our secret."

His sight was going hazy. He bit out, "Confident."

Ashworth wrestled Hardy's hands above his head, into only one of Ashworth's hands. Above that of testing his grip, Hardy wasn't even particularly fighting back. Ashworth just liked the imagery.

"I know what kind of man you are." Ashworth said, drawing closer. His breath fell on Hardy's lips. "You hold yourself in too high esteem to let yourself be shamed."

His other hand snaked down Hardy's side, crawled down his stomach, past his belt to the crotch of his pants and Ashworth squeezed, grin slipping onto his face when Hardy's entire body drew up, rigid, face surely paling. His teeth pressed together.

He darted to bite Hardy's ear. "You took my wife," he hissed, his hot mouth languidly on his earlobe, not without purpose, "The least you can do is play the part you stole."

Cold glazed over his skin.

The game impossibly clear, he became all too aware that Ashworth was straddling him.

His hand twisted around to squeeze Hardy's ass, jerking up Hardy's hips as he pushed his own down, forcibly dragging his half-hard cock along Hardy's flaccid one.

Panic set in.

Ashworth groaned, loosening his hold on him, just barely. Hardy tore his hands away from his grasp, desperately trying to push away from Ashworth, or push Ashworth off, heart hammering too hard and too fast to only be panic. Ashworth was all over him, his scent coating Hardy wholly, his weight on his legs, his stomach, his kiss on his earlobe, his— his penis on—

Ashworth was not deterred by Hardy's wild, scrabbling hands, weakening by the second. He only pressed down harder as Hardy's strength was eroded away, arms falling from their defence.

Black began encroaching his vision, his own heart and breath beginning to fill all the sound he could hear. Hardy was not afraid. He was not scared. He was not _terrified._

"I read your medical files," Ashworth said, still rutting against him. Hardy could barely recognize the words. Ashworth's hand that had previously held Hardy's hostage patted down his pockets, finding the blister pack on the left side. "Heart arrhythmia. How unfortunate."

Hardy was cold all over, mouth gone slack, too far gone to really feel more than icy acceptance, his chest heaving. His eyes couldn't focus on anything, sight slipping sideways, onion-skinned. His hands, weak and trembling as they were, reached for his pills. Ashworth drew them further away.

As Hardy felt his stomach dropping further and further, his ribs compressing closer and closer to aching pain despite his chest feeling sucked empty, he also felt a pool of heat developing even further south as Ashworth did not cease his movements. He wasn't hard, or getting there— he needed blood for that— but his body was responding and he was sick.

He wanted to cry. Or scream.

Ashworth parted from him, briefly, to replace his hard penis on Hardy's with his hand, the one that had been holding Hardy's arse. Ashworth's hand was warm, tight on the bulge of his pants.

"C'mon," he said, clutching Hardy's pills just in front of his lax face, not bothering to take them out of reach, not when Hardy was clearly on the verge of passing out, "Give me a thrust for every pill you've got to take, hmm? Wouldn't want you dying on me here. Come on Hardy, I'm trying to help you."

He pressed his hand down flat, palming Hardy.

If he could, he'd have gone red. _Give me a thrust for every pill you've got to take._

Forget his own stupid bloody advice. Hardy would rather defy this and die, giving in to an entirely different kind of darkness, than to give in to Ashworth's humiliation. His breathing fell heavy and Ashworth's face was a blur.

"Think of your daughter," he snapped in an echoed voice, "Daisy will need you after I release you. You can't die while I still have her."

Hardy very well could have started to cry. For all he was losing consciousness, he might have.

"Daisy needs you." Ashworth pressed, as desperate to make him do it as Hardy was desperate to not. He was gently rubbing his hand up and down Hardy's length, possessive in his touch.

He released a breath, a moan of pain stabbing through him. It only hurt more to think of Daisy like this, held down and in a position that he would be mortified to tell anyone about, let alone have anyone else see. Ashworth was right. He was a man of ego. He was too proud to be shamed. And he couldn't leave his daughter to this man.

It physically hurt. He couldn't breathe. He might have been crying. The tears might have been why the world was blurry, but it also might have just been the world.

He pushed himself against Ashworth's hand meagrely once. Twice.

"That wasn't so hard." Ashworth cooed. He cracked two pills from their packaging and shoved them unceremoniously into Hardy's mouth, which he swallowed on muscle memory. Then he threw the packet aside, going back to forcing Hardy's hips up to meet Ashworth's cock with both hands, unconcerned with whether or not Hardy would fight back.

Hardy groaned, medication not kicking in yet. His head was still dizzy.

One hand went to Hardy's throat, not quite squeezing but not loose, either.

"Your heart sounds so beautiful when it's giving out on you." Ashworth rasped, the only other sound the fabric of their pants rutting together. Ashworth was a solid force against him.

 _You're sick,_ Hardy wanted to respond. _You disgust me._

He didn't have the energy.

Ashworth was watching him carefully, presumably watching his breath come back to him, color repainting his face, the daze of his eyes leaving him, hips still rolling and dick still hard.

As soon as Hardy felt some semblance of okay, as soon as the idea of fighting came back to mind as a viable option, Ashworth seemed to read his thoughts. His hand on his throat, on his pulse point, tightened.

Hardy spluttered.

"Should I come on your clothes?" Ashworth asked, an entirely different kind of breathless, "Or on your face?"

There was no part of him that wasn't consumed by Ashworth.

"Maybe I'll come inside you."

Hardy sucked in a breath.

"In your mouth?" he questioned, "I should make you swallow me down. Taste me. Or maybe I should come in you and leave it there. You get to have my come dripping, wet on your arse until you make it home to shower me away. But you'll still feel me, won't you, Alec? My cock on your cock," he punctuated that with a particularly hard thrust, "My hands on your wrists. Your throat."

He clenched on Hardy's throat tighter.

His bare breathing became his sound, his sight, everything that encompassed his world.

Until Ashworth crashed his lips to Hardy's, stealing his breath away. There was nothing soft about it. It was angry and heated. Ownership. Ashworth moaned, his face heated with pleasure, easing with the pressure on Hardy's neck.

Even then was enough of a difference to send Hardy gasping for what little air he could— before Ashworth closed his hand tighter than before. Hardy's eyes fluttered like Ashworth's had, but for another reason entirely.

He did not try to slip Hardy tongue. Small blessings.

Ashworth let go, pushing back from the kiss, dropping his hand. Hardy heaved for air, choking on fire. Again being only able to focus on his own breath, Hardy was only barely able to recognize the man above him fumbling with his belt, loosening it and throwing it to the side. The metal clanged as it landed and skidded on the car floor. He did the same to Hardy's.

Ashworth took his own hard cock out of his jeans, contrasting Hardy's only half-there one. He was trying his best not to look at it as Ashworth gave it a quick stroke. "That's enough foreplay, I think."

Hardy was exhausted, hot despite his cold sweat. He couldn't move, his head only lolling to the side to stare as Ashworth undid the button of his trousers next. He jerked his hips away. Ashworth stilled him by gripping his cock to a nearly painful degree, glaring at him.

Ashworth drew down his zipper, using both hands to manhandle off his trousers, leaving Hardy in his pants.

"I'll remind you now to be nice to me." Ashworth said, hooking his fingers beneath that of Hardy's remaining waistband. "Remember. Think of your daughter."

A string of expletives ran across Hardy's mind. His chest was still heaving, if not more so, and he was shivering. Shaking. He was trying not to cry.

Hardy's boxers were pushed down to his knees. Exposed.

Ashworth carefully undid Hardy's button-up shirt, nearly lovingly stroking his throat before he did. _I can do whatever I want to you._

The message was clear.

He pushed the fabric off of Hardy's chest, running his hands up his quickly rising and falling chest, running his thumbs over his nipples. Ashworth leaned down and suckled on one. Hardy held his breath.

Ashworth looked up at him, lounging his entire body weight on Hardy. "The thing about nipples," he caressed the same one that had his saliva on it, "Is that they're indistinguishable from a woman's. Yours are barely different from Claire's. Maybe smaller. It's a shame about the hair."

He leaned down to the same one again, leaving the other to his hand. He switched, laving circles around the other with his tongue.

Hardy preferred violence.

Ashworth's hand grabbed the skin around his nipple. "Your breasts, Claire."

Hardy was sure he went red then. He chanced a look at what Ashworth was doing to see the man staring up at him with a wicked smile. What was even more humiliating was the warmth pooling in his groin. Not from the mortifying words Ashworth was saying, but from the attention and stimulus he was giving to his body.

Of course he noticed. "You like that, Hardy? You like being my wife?"

He pushed himself back, leaving Hardy's chest feeling wet and cold. And, horrifically, neglected. "I'll fuck you like my wife if you like."

Hardy's breath quickened, throat closing. _God, no_.

Ashworth spat on his hand, forcing it between Hardy and the seat below him, trailing around the space of Hardy's arsehole.

"No." Hardy whimpered, unable to help the word or the pitifulness of the sound.

"What was that?" Ashworth asked, finger threatening to press in.

He silently shook his head, body empty and cold save for the fingers and cock that were about to enter him.

"You want this. Tell me you want this— no, beg for it. And remember to be nice to me."

He pictured Daisy in a hotel room, alone and scared, gagged, tied down.

He wanted to contain his thoughts to his car, he didn't want to think about this event in relation to it happening to him, having an effect on him, his life, and he didn't want to think about his daughter while he was like this.

But there was a reason he was like this. There was a _reason._

"P— please," he breathed, his voice weak, "Please."

"Please what?"

"Fuck me." his voice cracked and the first tear fell, slipping out of the corner of his eye.

"Say it all together and I just might."

Hardy sobbed. "Please fuck me."

"If you say so, darling." Ashworth responded, inserting one finger, then two, then three in quick succession. Hardy gasped from the pain. Ashworth's fingers sawed in and out of him. "Relish this. This is your preparation."

There was Ashworth, still mostly dressed except for his cock hanging out obscenely. Him, then Hardy, with his trousers and pants pushed down to his knees and his shirt and jacket pushed aside, nipples an angry red. He didn't like their picture. 

"Tell me, have you ever fucked another man?" Ashworth asked.

An easy question.

Ashworth's fingers pushed in deeper just as he opened his mouth to answer, forcing an audible gasp from him. _"No."_

"So you're a virgin?" Ashworth asked, removing his fingers.

Aware of what came after the _preparation_ , Hardy's hips squirmed. "No."

"You're clearly not a lesbian. You're dripping for me," Ashworth said, "I bet you feel like a virgin.

He lifted Hardy's hips, adjusted his position without much grace and with a barely bitten back moan, forced himself inside.

Hardy couldn't contain the cry that escaped him, an unfamiliar discomfort invading his body. Discomfort wasn't the right word; it was just _pain_.

Ashworth wasted no time burying himself completely, and Hardy was sure he felt something tear, jerking his arse away from Ashworth, tense and clenching. It hurt an oblitering amount. Like he was being cut in half. As Ashworth moved up and down, Hardy was aware it got slicker, stomach sick with the thought that it was probably because of blood.

God, he was going to bleed on the car seat.

God, this was Miller's car.

"I was right," Ashworth grunted, still pounding into him, "You do feel like a virgin."

The more he moved away from Ashworth the deeper Ashworth seemed to be able fuck him. His hands weren't even pressing against the body against him, they were pushing harshly against the window, the cup holder, his hips desperately pushing away but only giving Ashworth more space to go.

Tears ran freely down the sides of his face, whispered pleas forced out of him, and Daisy's face kept slipping into his mind. What if Ashworth had done something to her? What if he had done this?

He was not trying to hit Hardy's prostate. But when he did, the white-hot pleasure still could not overcome the burning pain that Hardy could not escape but that his mind was coming to accept. He was being ripped apart.

Ashworth's cock jammed in and out of Hardy in thrusts that were losing rhythm. The panic rising in him could not be stopped. Ashworth's movements were stoked. Hardy more than anything wanted to escape, but his sparse room and strength for movement prevented any hope of it.

Ashworth pulled out, letting Hardy's slick arse fall back onto the seat, rough against his skin. Hardy shut his eyes. He did not want to see Ashworth's cock with his blood on it.

He heard the shifting sounds of skin on skin, but still jumped when Ashworth came on him. His thighs, his hips, his stomach, his chest. He hoped it was over.

Ashworth's hand went back onto Hardy's cock. "You look anxious."

He leaned in close. Hardy's ear burned with the memory, and his lips pressed together at the remembrance of Ashworth's kiss.

"Don't worry," he hissed into Hardy's ear, "I'm a gentleman. I'd never forget about my wife."

And just like that, Hardy's reluctant erection was furiously being pumped with a hand stained with his own blood. His eyes flashed open. The tears fell harder as his mouth dropped open, gasping. His knees inched wider, not of his own volition.

His hips jerked up, cock in Ashworth's hand. _Give me a thrust for every pill you've got to take._

Hardy openly sobbed, nothing of his pride left to take. His hips moved to Ashworth's rhythm, cock only getting harder.

"Maybe next time I'll bring you something to wear," Ashworth mused, horror creeping on Hardy at the implications of next time, "I bet you'd look nice in panties."

Hardy's sobs and moans mingled together.

"Stockings?" he suggested. "A bra?"

Ashworth's hand brushed up and down Hardy's dick, smearing the precome over the head. He let go, and Hardy hated his whine and the way the sudden lack of stimulation burned.

He dragged up Hardy's boxers, putting them in place over his cock. "We wouldn't want you making a mess of me, would we?" he explained.

Putting his hand in Hardy's pants, Ashworth stroked him, hand fisted around his length, once more, twice more, and that was all it took. His hips twisted up, mouth falling open, eyes shutting. He came in his pants, body immediately going numb. Lax. His eyes fluttered open again.

Ashworth leaned over and kissed him once more. "That was lovely. Thank you, love."

Hardy's old nickname for Tess tracked from Ashworth's lips so easily.

Ashworth grabbed a tissue out of his pocket, cleaning himself off— and portions of the car— tucking himself back in and throwing the cloth away. Hardy, who had gone completely still, noted Ashworth doing up his clothes for him, covering up his mess. The fabric stuck uncomfortably to where Ashworth's come was on him.

After being satisfied with Hardy's appearance, Ashworth set Hardy's chair back up to where it'd been before, exited the car from the passenger seat, went round to the driver's, and sat down.

Used was the only word for how Hardy felt.

The car started and the drive back began. It was no longer morning. He knew the seat beneath him was wet with spots of blood. He just didn't want to see the proof.

The sparse trees went past him. The car turned back onto the highway.

Quietly, his mouth dry, Hardy asked, "What'll I tell Miller?"

"Not my problem." Ashworth responded. "If you wanna tell her you played wife for me, go ahead. I'll even back you up."

Hardy's eyes kept on the passing scenery. The only evidence was him.

"I could press charges. They'd believe me over you."

"You won't press charges," Ashworth scoffed, "You wanna stand up in court and tell everyone— your coworkers, Miller, your daughter— that I fucked you? That I made you come? That you begged for it?

"Besides, if you're so sure I did this crime, that I did not do, you'll peg me for that and there's no need to accuse me of anything else."

"What if you've just given me a back-up plan for if that falls through?"

"Again?" Ashworth responded, "That'll look awfully vindictive of you, won't it?" He glanced over. "It's all or nothing if you really wanna accuse me. So you won't."

Not wanting him to be right, not when he'd stained Hardy like he had, Hardy said, "I am an officer of the law, I—"

"You're a man first," Ashworth fired back, "Remember what I said about your pride?"

Hardy's breathing was getting stressed. Ashworth grabbed his pills from where they'd been in the cup holder and tossed them at him. "Two, right?"

As much as he wanted it all to end, he popped the pills and tried to ignore the man sitting beside him, the man who had marked him so completely that Hardy didn't dare think about how he'd actually survive this.

The rest of the drive was silent. Ashworth drove Miller's car down to the area by Hardy's blue chalet.

"Shower before you go see your daughter," Ashworth said when they stopped, "You smell like sex."

He opened the car door and shut it, walking away, just like that. When Hardy looked to his right, to the empty seat, he could nearly imagine that it hadn't happened. Except for the fluids on his body. He was contaminated.

Images of what had just happened flashed through his mind, just finally beginning to settle in. His lip began to tremble. His hands lost control of their stillness. The overwhelming sensation of shock shot through him.

Filled with a frantic purpose, panic reaching him, Hardy ran from the car, getting to his home near the treacherous water not soon enough. He was undoing his buttons before he even got inside, dropping his clothes into the waste bin without a second thought. He got into the shower with the water still freezing cold, scrubbing himself red.

He nearly hoped Miller would find the car, and the blood stain and figure it out herself. At the same time, he desperately wished she'd never find out— he couldn't get to the car fast enough.

He dried quickly, using the towel to both dry and scrub a little more. He dressed in black pants and trousers, putting on the first t-shirt he spotted, plain grey; buttons would take too long. He put on his jacket, socks and shoes, grabbing his phone out of his pocket to search how to get a blood stain out of car upholstery. Saltwater solution. Wipe cloth around edges, work in.

He did the best he could, hoping that when it dried, if it was still there, he could explain it away as something other than blood.

Hardy got the car started, driving to Trader's. Ashworth hadn't specified which hotel, but he was hoping he meant this one.

He sped through town, worrying about what state his daughter would be in when he got there. He pulled into the Trader's parking lot, storming in. No sign of Becca.

An idea sparked in him. Ashworth hadn't taken any of his belongings. Maybe he hadn't taken any of Daisy's either.

He turned on his phone and dialled her, hoping for the daft chance she had her ringer on, that it wasn't off. She didn't pick up and he didn't hear the tone. He kept walking, phoning again.

Nothing. God, Daisy, please—

 _—fuck me,_ his own voice echoed back to him. He fumbled with his phone, tears starting to fall and burn in his eyes. He would not allow this to ruin him. Ashworth was not allowed to destroy him. Hardy was not allowed to break.

He called a third time and it picked up. He stumbled, leaning against the wall for support.

"Daise?" he breathed.

"Dad?" she said back, "What the bloody hell do you want?"

 _Language_ was on the tip of his tongue. But cold washed over him. _What the bloody hell do you want?_

He froze. Something in his throat clogged, and he forced air in and out roughly. It began to dawn on him.

Trying not to hyperventilate, he carefully asked, "Daisy, where are you?"

Sensing his anxiety, there was a different tone to her voice than her earlier snappy one. She said slowly, "I'm at school. Lunch is almost over."

He sank against the wall. "You— you've been at school all day?"

"Dad, it's Thursday. Of course I'm at school."

 _Think about your daughter_.

He was nauseous.

"Um, dad? Are you okay?"

He clasped a hand over his mouth, on his knees in the hallway of a hotel that Daisy was not and had not been in. He was going to vomit. He gagged.

"Dad, are you— are you sick?"

Count that as another bodily fluid to the day.

"Dad," she sounded scared, "I'm calling mom. Where are you?"

"I'm fine," he croaked, "I'll come to you. Need to see you."

"Dad—"

"Go to class, Daisy. I'm alright. Don't worry about me." he placated, hanging up. On shaking legs he stood, leaning heavily against the wall.

She rang him a moment later. He ignored it, his racing mind flashing with his naivete. None of _that_ had to happen. He let it happen for nothing. His fault. His error in judgement. His stupidity. Tucking his phone in his pocket, he stepped over his vomit, stomach still clawing into itself.

He trudged down the stairs, liberally using the railing. When he reached the main lobby, he found Becca at her desk, finally. He felt cold. Pale.

"There's sick on your floor by the twenty-third door." he informed her, mouth tasting of bile. Dirty, bitter, like the rest of him felt.

"What?"

He walked past her to Miller's car, chest not happy with him. When he sat down, he recognized his breathing, the pain, his shaking that wasn't just anxiety. He took two pills.

He did not think of Ashworth.

Hardy started the engine, mentally apologizing to Miller for stealing her car. He drove to Sandbrook and did not look at the scarce trees, or the dull green grass. He pulled over not a quarter of the way there to hyperventilate some more and take more pills.

His phone rang. He pulled it out, still stopped on the curb of the road. Miller.

Wiping at his eyes, clearing his throat and squaring his shoulders, he picked up the phone.

She wasted no time. "I've left you just about five voicemails. Did you drive to court without me?" she snapped, "I had to get a taxi. Are you here? I don't see you."

Tiredly, he responded, "No."

Cars whizzed by, all unaware of Hardy's day. He envied them.

"Well, where the hell are you? My car's not a rental and you shouldn't be driving."

Too atrophied to lie and only acknowledging the former not the latter, he told her, "On my way to Sandbrook."

There was a pause. "What? Why?"

His voice cracked. "Need to see my daughter."

Suddenly a lot less pissed off, and much more cautious, she asked, "Did something happen?"

_Don't worry. I'm a gentleman. I'd never forget my wife._

Hardy took a sharp breath. Apparently, she heard it.

"Should've waited for me." Miller muttered.

"Sorry."

"You're still due in court."

"They'll excuse it. I have a good enough reason." Nevermind that he was still trying to think of one that didn't involve the truth.

He heard her suspicion. "Daisy's not the one needed in court."

"I know that. I need to go."

"What? Don't you dare hang up on me--"

He hung up on her, setting down his phone and inhaling. Exhaling. Neither sounded steady. He was not going to cry again. He wasn't.

Inhale. Exhale.

He stared out the windshield, defeated. How was this his life?

There was a long road ahead and he didn't want to take it.


End file.
